50 Christophers…all ready to rock and roll in a unique outfit and story…
Every time I write him in a new AU, he is never the same as his previous iterations. He is constantly changing, filling the various roles of protagonist, villain and secondary character. What a happy accident upon this world. What a marvelous, strange and hairy set of occurrences to have led me to him.
Edit: If you’d like to read my commentary on the outfits, you can view the Twitter post here! By the way, I have no idea how that website works and will most likely only be posting this set of images.
Edit II: You know what, you deserve better than being sent to Twitter to read my commentaries. I’ve replaced the transparent PNGs with non transparent PNGs so you can read my commentary with ease.
Warnings:Tron being Tron, Christopher struggling with unhealthy expectations, Arclight crest fuckery
Summary: Before he can save his brothers from the orphanage, Christopher must strengthen himself first. His newly-returned father has just the answer.
“Rise, my son,” calls his father. “Rise as my successor—my heir.”
Underneath his ceremonial cape trimmed with ermine fur, Christopher stands. How strange it was, to look into his father’s golden eyes webbed with crows’ feet. It had seemed only yesterday that he was looking up at him. Now they see eye-to-eye, with Christopher only a few inches below his father. He wonders if from afar, he still appears like a ghostly version of his father, with silver hair gathered into a long braid.
“You are now Young Lord Arclight, protector of House Arclight and all of its treasures,” declares his father, eyes shining with pride. “Beside me, you shall endeavor to carry our traditions with grace and pride befitting of your good breeding.”
His father clasps his hands in his, the warmth radiating from Byron’s skin reaching deep into Christopher’s heart. He beams with pride as the ballroom erupts into applause. The Arclight pin is secured to his robes, shining proudly beneath the golden light.
It is the same golden light, filtering through the curtains in small rays, that awakens Christopher. Or, V, as he is known now. A number, a statistic.
At 20-years old, the world should have opened its doors to him, welcoming him into the pleasures of adulthood. Independence. Respect. Honor. Yet he is trapped in this hotel suite, leagues away from his home without a single thing to his name. A king without a crown, a ship adrift in the ocean.
He gazes at his reflection in the mirror.
Nothing has changed. His hair is still long (since when did it get so long?), he is still as tall as he was last night and his eyes are still the same sad shade of blue that his grandmother had called “mourner’s eyes.” Fitting, for he is mourning the gala and splendor that was rightfully his this day.
He dresses in silence, grimacing at the ribs that poke through his skin. It’s so difficult, to take care—to want to take care—of yourself when the weight of the world is on your shoulders in the form of a demented child that you call your father. Doubts occasionally fill his mind at the identity of the child, but with each passing day, his doubts recede deeper and deeper into the recesses of his mind. There was his father’s calm way of walking, hands clasped behind his back. There was that one event that only his father would know. There were the cards his father had so loved, gently clipped at the corners.
It feels as if he has fallen into a fairytale whose end is obscured by mist and tangled forests. A ruthless betrayal. A cursed father. Magic granted by creatures from a far off land. And he is just a helpless fly, caught in the tale’s intricate spinnings.
Knock knock. Midway through buttoning up his shirt, V freezes.
“Are you ready?” calls the now-familiar voice of Tron.
V finishes buttoning up his shirt.
“Yes,” he replies.
He opens the door to meet the gleaming metal smile of his father’s mask. Once, it frightened him. Now, he only feels a slight undercurrent of unease. Whatever the mask was hiding was definitely worse.
“Splendid,” murmurs Tron. “Now let us begin.”
They walk down the hall towards the room that was prepared for the ritual. With each step, V’s heart beats faster. He closes his eyes and opens them, pretending he is walking through the Arclight manor’s halls. His ancestor’s portraits stare down at him with pride. The flowers have been freshly picked by the staff, reserved especially for this day. Their footsteps echo upon the marble, worn with generations upon generations of Arclights making the same journey.
The doors open to reveal the opulent ballroom, a sea of people waiting to catch a glimpse of the future Young Lord Arclight. He stands proud and tall, the heavy ermine cape the only thing keeping him on the ground.
“My son!” declares his father, arms sweeping across the ballroom.
They make a dashing pair, Byron and Christopher. Both tall and elegant, they stand above their guests like two proud kings. Dressed in Arclight regalia, they carry the hopes and wishes of the past and future Arclights upon their shoulders.
His father clears his throat and places a hand on Christopher’s shoulder.
“Tonight, we shall witness—”
“Lay down.”
Tron’s command snaps V out of his fantasy. Before him, his father’s crest glows in the darkened ritual room. In silence, V lies down, the cold marble seeping into his skin. So much for a ball held in his name.
“The pain that you shall endure will equal the amount of power that shall be granted,” explains Tron as he raises his hand.
V feels his body being lifted into the air, tendrils of DNA-helices snaking up from the ground. A lump forms in his throat as he regards his father’s impassive expression. They had decided on this date a week ago. In a detached voice, his father had explained the details of the ritual with each approaching day. To V, it had seemed more like a ridiculous play that he had to partake in to appease a child.
Now, with the tendrils wrapping around his limbs, he realizes that this is far from an act.
“You’ll take all of it to protect your brothers, right?” breathes Tron.
Thomas. Michael. Still in the orphanage, waiting for his return.
A stinging sensation begins to prickle his skin. V swallows the lump in his throat.
“Yes, of course,” he utters.
Yet, would he? It had been more than four years since he had last seen them. They could be nothing but cold-eyed strangers at this point. No, no. He musn’t think that way. It wasn’t how a proper brother—
The first wave of pain courses through his body and he stiffens. Like an unexpected bee sting, the pain lingers. Still, it wasn’t anything compared to what he had endured with Kaito.
Kaito . Son of his father’s murderer.
Children should not bear the sins of their fathers and yet…
Another wave of pain, sharper and longer this time. V grits his teeth as the tendrils tighten their grip, holding his body taut.
He had betrayed his brothers by indulging himself with Kaito and Haruto. Deep down, he knew that he would never be considered as their own flesh and blood and yet…
More pain.
Fantasies. Escape. His two favorite things to do ever since he was a child. Hiding from his strict tutors by daydreaming about the stars. Stifling his parents’ reprimandations by wishing he was floating out in space with the planets. Occasionally envisioning a reality where Thomas had been born first instead of him.
Oh, there was no doubt that Thomas would bully the daylights out of him but it was better than all of the expectations the entire household had heaped upon him, year after year.
The spare to the heir.
Kaito and Haruto as the spares to Thomas and Michael.
The helices begin to glow brighter. V stifles a cry as a particularly sharp bolt of pain courses through him. His miniature father looms over him, the pinkish light casting his body in a hellish light. Tron squeezes his fist and the tendrils grow tighter. Struggling against his bonds leads to no avail. V’s breath catches in his throat as his world grows white with pain.
Sharp. Biting. Cold. Hateful.
“Don’t fight it, V. Accept it. My anger. My hatred. My pain. It will make you strong,” calls his father.
His shadow dances across the wall like a demon, laughing at V’s anguish. It feels as if the prickles at the beginning had left holes in V’s skin, allowing a burning coldness to seep deep into his body. It drips, painful inch by painful inch into his body, like an IV drip of poison.
By God, they were meant to watch the sunrise together. It was their tradition, as long as he could remember. Then, they were supposed to have a breakfast of scones, toast, tea and cake. And because this was his twentieth birthday, he would finally be allowed into his father’s study to learn about the family secrets.
All of his life he had wanted to enter through those sacred doors. What treasures would have awaited him in the forms of heirlooms and books? How changed would he be once he left those doors?
And yet he is here, floating in the air, immobilized by demonic helices and surrounded by dancing shadows, something cold and wicked crawling into his soul.
V shouts as he feels his limbs being pulled apart, the tendrils doing their damned best to quarter him. Yet when he looks down at himself, he is still as he was. No holes. No evidence of the thing that was most definitely invading his being.
He could take more pain. For his father, who endured so much to return to him. For his brothers, who were innocents caught in the crossfire.
He grits his teeth and meets the next wave of pain with only a low groan.
“Excellent,” breathes his father.
The singular word makes everything else insignificant.
A memory—distant and dreamlike, resurfaces in V’s mind.
To you, your father should be as a god.
One that composed your beauties, yea, and one
To whom you are but as a form in wax,
By him imprinted and within his power
To leave the figure or disfigure it.
By his father’s side he had watched the Shakespearean play, quietly bored out of his mind. He had always preferred opera, with its soaring instrumentations and glamorous costumes. The play was all a blur now, save for these lines from the first scene.
Those were the words he had been taught to live by, serving and honoring his father as if he were a god. Even now, in his shrunken form and demonic mask, his father was still V’s god.
If he were told to jump into a fire and burn, he would obey. To his father, he is nothing but wax, born to be molded and fit for his use.
Tears burn V’s eyes and slide down his cheeks, leaving behind heated trails. He must survive this inferno to serve his father and protect his family, even if that meant sacrificing his very soul.
Not only would he jump into the fire, he would dance through it, a flaming effigy of devotion. That was how deep his loyalty lay, even as pain akin to being burned alive ravaged his body. He will be reduced to ashes and dust before he would refuse his father an order. His body convulses with pain and he grits his teeth. He is dancing, dancing through the flames and running towards the light that awaited at the end of the tunnel.
He is ablaze with passion, the multiplying tendrils the only thing preventing his disintegration. As the heir to the Arclight family, this was what he must endure to ensure that his family would survive.
A final shout escapes him as his world fills with white and he briefly feels lightened of all pain. It was as if he was struck by lightning, so electrifying and all-encompassing was the pain. He is floating, floating, gazing down at the body that was imprisoned by purplish helices, stretched like a prisoner on the rack. For a moment, it feels as if he would continue to drift away from this nightmarish room and into the heavens, far away where he would become one with the planets and stars. There he would stay, watching over the earth, wondering how such insignificant creatures could even attempt to make their mark in a universe so large and uncaring.
And then, the world spins and he returns back to his body, his forehead burning. Something etches itself into his skin, slithering deep into his soul and nestling there. It continues to burn in a pulsing sensation, melding with his heartbeat.
His father’s crest has been replaced with his own, blue and swirling with elegant curlicues. As he is lowered onto the ground, he looks up at his father, whose face remains impassive. Sweat and tears cover V’s face and blood rushes through his ears. Up and down his chest heaves, his vision blurring.
Despite that, a cold and prideful voice calls out from the depths of his mind. Thomas and Michael must never see him like this. He must protect them from such pain, as their older brother. And as the Arclight heir, his duty was to endure the pain that their father would inflict upon him without a single complaint. He is marble, silent and unmoving.
Tron leans over and rests a cool hand on his burning forehead. All Christopher can see is the mask’s smile. What skin remains on his father’s face is covered by the shadows of the now-darkened room.
“Happy birthday, V,” murmurs Tron.
His breath shuddering with relief, Christopher closes his eyes and allows the darkness to overtake him. Never again shall he be allowed to show weakness. The crest would not allow it.
